


Only Honour Left

by Elenothar



Series: The Long Road Home [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Bilbo is still the loveliest Hobbit ever, Bilbo/Thorin if you squint really really hard, Durin Family, Dwalin/cookies, Gen, M/M, Thorin + horse, Thorin centric, Thorin in Minas Tirith not so much, Thorin in Rohan works well, a dwarf hiding among hobbits, implied Dwalin/Nori/issues, majestic brooding, post BOFA - everybody lives, you can see the feels from a mile off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Thranduil agrees to save Kili and Fili post BoFA, but Thorin has to let everyone think he's dead.</p><p>Cue Thorin finding himself wandering through Middle-earth, trying - rather unsuccessfully - to avoid notice. That in itself wouldn't be so much of a problem, after all he has experience of being a wandering smith, if he weren't missing his nephews and friends constantly and spending most of his time brooding (when he wasn't busy drowning in guilt). Also royalty just won't leave him alone and dwarves somehow keep popping up everywhere he goes.</p><p>(Or the one where I'm still terrible at writing summaries and you should just read the prompt if you want a comprehensive one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Honour Left

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Hobbitkinkmeme. You can find it [here](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?thread=14047933#t14047933) (reading it will definitely spoil the plot of the fic).
> 
> A few things concerning the story: 
> 
> 1) This whole thing is written in Thorin's POV (and I wasn't lying in the tags - it really is Thorin centric so if he's not your guy you might want to give this a pass) and I have no idea whatsoever if I'm doing him justice here. I _also_ have no idea how Richard Armitage managed to live with him in his head for eighteen months and not fall into complete gloom and doom.
> 
> 2) Though Thranduil is the instigator of this whole mess, plot-wise, I do NOT see him as a bad guy. A bit of a dick, who isn't too happy about a company of loud smelly dwarves having escaped undetected from his dungeons, though, yes.
> 
> 3) I fudged Theoden's timeline just a tiny bit. He's around ten in this story, which would put him at sixty in LOTR, which is a little old, but not by so much that I thought it impossible to do *waves hand - this is not the problem you're looking for*
> 
> 4) One truth I found while writing this is that Dwalin doesn't read right without a Scottish accent, which lead to me muddling through trying to make him sound Scottish. Being neither Scottish _nor_ English in the first place, this has a rather high chance of epic failure, so please don't be too angry with me if I screwed it up (and anyone offering assistance would be welcomed with open arms and cookies).
> 
> 5) The story does diverge from the prompt a little bit, when I thought it necessary for the plot to work. Sorry for that original prompter!
> 
> I still don't have a beta in this fandom (where do I find one anway?) - ergo all the mistakes are mine.

 

***

The battle was over. The war was won.

Yet when Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thráin, woke half buried under a huge orc carcass, head pounding, the only thought in his mind was of his two beloved sister-sons falling in his defence right before his eyes as he was surrounded by foes and helpless to aid them. The image of Kíli lying in his own blood, several arrows protruding from his still body, and Fíli slumped next to his brother, a spear in his side, was still so vivid in his mind’s eye that nothing else could pervade his consciousness, not even blurred memories of orcs and wargs dying all around him, of Bolg’s last agonized scream as Thorin cut him down, or the cheering dwarves, men, and elves when the remaining enemies had turned to flee.

When Thorin finally mustered the strength of will to shift from under the body pinning him to the ground and stand, he found that the battle-field was deserted of the living, only corpses left to rot.

Squinting against the rapidly lowering sun, which would soon be obscured behind the peaks of the mountains around the vale, Thorin could barely make out an assembly of tents at the edges of the valley, where the battle had not raged quite so brutally.

Thorin ignored the pounding in his head and the various aches and pains all over his body, feeling almost guilty for having emerged from the battle relatively unscathed when others had suffered so much, and started towards the distant row of tents. Inevitably his thoughts returned to Fíli and Kíli, and also the rest of the company, whose fates he didn’t know either.

By the time he finally reached the mass of tents the sun had fully dipped behind the mountains, leaving no trace of its former warmth on the torn earth. He shivered, pulling his blood-stained closer around his body. Dwarves didn’t feel the cold easily, but a bone-deep weariness had settled over him like a numbing cloud.

Thorin stumbled into the tent mostly by accident, the faint blurring of his eyes – damned head-injuries – making him miss the tent pole in front of him; and no tent flap was built to endure over 200 pounds of geared-up dwarf without ripping.

The sight that met Thorin’s eyes when he regained his footing would forever haunt his sleeping and waking moments, for nothing could’ve prepared him for seeing Fíli and Kíli lying bloodied and still on makeshift beds, barely breathing.

Thorin moved closer caught between numbness and horror and when he checked their breathing it, thank Mahal, was still there but shallow and sounding far too pained. A sob tore itself from the Dwarf King’s throat as he sank to his knees in between their pallets, one hand instinctively coming down on each beloved dwarf’s head.

_I did this. My folly caused this._

How long he knelt there lost in despair Thorin couldn’t say, but approaching footsteps shook him from his grief and self-blame. It was partly shame that made him stand and turn to leave, and partly a thought that started forming, a desperate hope that he would still pursue – for he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , sit by idly as his nephews lay dying. With a last caress over both their brows, a silent farewell and apology in one, he turned his back and vanished through the tattered flap.

Once outside, Thorin tugged his cloak tighter around himself in an effort to remain unnoticed. For what he was planning, he would rather not anyone recognized him on the way.

The elvenking’s tent was set on the outskirts of the impromptu make-shift town, as far from the squalor of the injured and wounded as possible. Two guards bade him halt in front of its entrance and he waited with barely concealed impatience until he was allowed entry.

For having been in battle only hours before Thranduil looked annoyingly pristine and put-together, lounging on a chair in his spacious tent, especially since Thorin knew that he himself must look a fright, dirt and sweat and blood clinging to his garments, armour, and skin.

“Thranduil,” he greeted, perhaps a little curtly, but in his opinion rather civilly. He knew, after all, that being his usual stubborn self wouldn’t help him in the least right now.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Thranduil returned, voice as calm and cool as ever. “So you yet live.”

Thorin bared his teeth in an approximation of a grin. “It seems reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“Indeed.” Thranduil’s assessing gaze roamed over the shorter figure of the dwarf. “What brings you to my tent then, _King_?”

Thorin took a deep breath, steeling himself for the words that were about to pass his lips – for Fíli and Kíli, he reminded himself. “I have a favour to ask of you, Elvenking.”

For a second Thranduil almost looked surprised. “A _favour_? What favour could the Heir of Durin himself wish from me?”

Thorin only just kept himself from gritting his teeth at the obvious sarcasm. “My nephews are gravely wounded, beyond the help of any dwarven healer. Your kind has the most competent healers of all the races, and you yourself are rumoured to be among them. I would ask you to help them, they’re only young and should have a long life ahead of them.”

Despite the desperation that he could not quite keep out of his voice, Thranduil only stared at him placidly. “And what,” he said, “would you give me in exchange for such a deed, King Under the Mountain?”

Thorin stared into those age-old eyes. “Anything,” he whispered.

Thranduil’s mouth twitched, not a smile, but something darkly amused nonetheless. “And what if I told you that I would do as you ask, if only you left here tonight _without_ telling anyone and never came back? It shouldn’t be too hard, they think you’re dead already.”

“If that is your prize, so be it,” Thorin said quietly, despite his shock and pain at the mere suggestion, holding Thranduil’s cool gaze with sheer stubborn refusal to look away. He would not jeopardize his nephew’s lives, not for his own sorry sake. “I would only ask this: go to Bilbo Baggins and tell him from me that I would take back my words from the gate if I could, and beg his forgiveness for my deeds when the madness had its hold on my mind.”

Thranduil’s pale eyebrows rose. “The halfling?” he queries, sounding mildly interested despite himself. “And why should I do that?”

“If you will not do it for me, do it for him,” Thorin tiredly snaps. “We both know he is not to blame for what happened, but blame himself, at least in part, he _will_. It would be far kinder to a kind soul to let him go with the knowledge that any bad blood between us was not caused by him and did not survive my return to sanity. Let him belief that I ‘died’ counting him as my friend once more.”

For a moment Thranduil simply looked at him, pale eyes searing through Thorin as if to excavate a deeper meaning behind his request, then he nodded once. “I will do as you ask. For his sake.”

Thorin inclined his head in thanks, as much as the simple gesture galled him. After all, if the elf could indeed save his sister-sons Thorin would forever be indebted to him. “Then I will take my leave now, as long as you tend to my heirs and safe their lives.”

He turned and left without waiting for a reply. For all that he despised Thranduil of Mirkwood for past deeds, he did not believe he would go back on his word now, not when he had gained what he had wanted from Thorin. Not when the battle had only just been won, and the careful alliance between dwarves, men, and elves needed to be nurtured for it to survive – and for everyone to receive what they imagined to be their due from Erebor’s treasure halls, of course.

He packed what he could find in a furtive hurry, and hoped that it would be enough to sustain him until he found somewhere he could resupply without being recognized – for all that he would heed Thranduil’s wishes and leave, he wasn’t about to let himself starve or freeze to death in the wild shortly after his departure. He wouldn’t give the elven king that satisfaction. 

Leaving in the dark like a thief, without goodbyes, Thorin had never felt less like a king, not even when he had been taking degrading work in the forges of men for a pittance. Yet with all that had happened, with all that _he_ had wrought, he could not claim his fate unjust, even if his heart ached at the thought of never seeing Fíli and Kíli again, never seeing Dís again – and never setting foot into his home again.

With one last lingering glance at the tent that Thranduil was now working in to safe his nephews’ lives, Thorin squared his shoulders and stepped into the darkness.

*

The dwarf who finally arrived at Beorn’s hall weeks later, was hardly recognizable as a former king. After days and days of long hard walks around Mirkwood – he would be damned if he set a foot into that cursed forest again – Thorin had aged, more white strands streaking through his jet black mane and more lines marking a face that had grown thinner from sparse eating.

He had not originally intended to impose on the skinchanger’s hospitality again, but the state of his provisions, and truth be told, his own physical shape left him little choice, so he could only hope Beorn would welcome him as warmly as the company had been back then.

Only a little time ago he would’ve been torn between pride and necessity when it came to asking help from anyone outside his own race, but weeks of loneliness and hardship had slowly but surely chipped away at any arrogance and wilful pride he might’ve once held.

As it turned out, his worries had been for naught, as Beorn seemed happy enough to offer him a place to stay for a bit, though Thorin found that that had more to do with the fact that he had killed Bolg, thus throwing the last remains of the Gundabad orcs into turmoil, than anything else. He wasn’t inclined to complain either way.

Beorn also didn’t appear to be too surprised that Thorin was still alive, though he must’ve heard of his supposed death back at Erebor. For a while Thorin avoided asking about it, seeing as he wasn’t too keen on having to explain why exactly he had left Erebor with everyone thinking him dead, but in the end it was Beorn who broached the topic first as he kept the dwarf company during a filling dinner.

“You have questions,” the large man rumbled, pushing aside the bowl of honey in front of him in favour of reaching for a huge – even for dwarven standards – mug of ale.

A little to his surprise Thorin had found that any doubts and suspicions he might’ve had the first time they’d passed through Beorn’s lands had left him, and he felt almost relaxed in the man’s huge hall and company.

He finished chewing his mouthful of bread, both to buy himself time and because he _had_ been educated in manners once upon a time, before speaking. “You do not seem surprised to see me here, Master Beorn.”

At that Beorn laughs, deep and throaty. “My friend, you might have passed undetected by your own race’s eyes, but you did not escape the animals’ notice.”

Well, that made and sense, and if that was the case… Hope unfurled in Thorin’s chest as he pondered on his next words. “Do you have any news of Erebor, then?”

“Aye, ravens pass through here sometimes,” Beorn replied and Thorin’s back straightened involuntarily in tense anticipation. “The kingdom thrives once more, Thorin, son of Thráin, though there’ve been some reports of the mountain shaking.” His dark brown gaze bored into Thorin’s. “Some say that the mountain itself is mourning its rightful king’s passing.”

Thorin managed to keep back his snort, but his incredulity must’ve shown on his face regardless, for Beorn chuckled. “Tis only a tale, and a nice one. But fear not, your kin, the blond one, sits upon the throne of Erebor now and he rules with wisdom and the dark one beside him.”

All pent-up tension and strength left Thorin’s body in a mighty rush and he all but collapsed on the table in front of him, his head thunking against the bright wood. His sister-sons yet lived and Thorin’s sacrifice had not been in vain. Fíli and Kíli lived and Erebor was mighty once more – everything Thorin had ever dreamed of had come to pass and in that moment it didn’t matter that he wasn’t there, that he wasn’t king; the knowledge alone was enough. For the first time in, well, a rather long while Thorin felt himself completely relax.

“Are they well? Are my nephews well?” he asked finally, once the first wave of almost giddy relief had abated.

Beorn shrugged. “They’re alive, but more I cannot tell you. Ravens haven’t much of a concept of dwarven injuries.”

Not exactly the reassurance Thorin had wanted to hear, but for now it had to do. And they couldn’t be too unwell if Fíli had claimed the throne.

Thorin inclined his head in Beorn’s direction in a gesture of gratitude. “I thank you for setting my heart at ease, Master Beorn. I am in your debt.”

Beorn’s gaze gentled, for all that he was twice as tall as the dwarf and usually projected an intimidating presence. Protectiveness of others was, after all, not a strange thing to him. “None of that ‘Master Beorn’ talk now. Call me Beorn.”

“As you wish.” Thorin gave him a small, but sincere smile.

Only later, when Thorin had retired to the room Beorn had shown him to (along with assurances that he might stay for a few days if he so wished, which Thorin _did_ ), it occurred to him that the other had never asked him _why_.

Thorin puzzled over it for a while, but in the end  he supposed that Beorn being a rather private being himself, understood his reluctance to talk about any reason for his self-imposed exile and was certainly smart enough to guess at some, if probably not all, given that not even Thorin had expected Thranduil to demand this, of his motivations.

He stayed at Beorn’s almost incongruously peaceful – considering the harsh wilderness beyond the boundaries of his lands –hall and surrounding gardens for a full week, regaining some of his former weight and taking the time to rest properly for the first time since he’d left Erebor.

Beorn was a good host, in his own way, and Thorin didn’t want for anything, though the man himself was around only sparsely, driving home the loneliness that now resided in Thorin’s heart almost permanently – especially in the light of all the memories of a company of thirteen laughing and being merry with the relief of having escaped the mountains mostly unscathed ghosting around in his mind.

When he finally prepared to leave, Beorn did come to see him off, with the offer of lending him a pony once more. Though Thorin appreciated the gesture of trust and friendship, he declined.

“I wouldn’t want to whisk away one of your precious charges a second time,” he told the other as he shouldered his pack, which was now decidedly, and comfortingly, heavier than before. “If there’s anything I have now it’s time and I’ve managed on foot well enough until now.”

Beorn nodded. “As you wish. A safe journey to you, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Returning the goodbye, Thorin set out into the south, his heart a little lighter with the knowledge of Fíli and Kíli well in Erebor, rebuilding his home.

*

Early rays of the morning sun shone on the green hills laid out all around him. A different person, even a different dwarf, would’ve taken a little time to admire the play of colours on the planes of Rohan in the early morning hours, but Thorin had never had a mind for such things. Especially not when his food provisions were running as low as they were now, which, coupled with the fact that he was only vaguely aware of where he was, posed something of a problem. Rohan was a wide realm and knowing he had entered it didn’t necessarily give him a clue as to where exactly he was right at that moment – after all he’d only been to the kingdom once before, during the dwarves’ of Erebor long journey towards the Blue Mountains after Smaug’s attack. It was not a time Thorin remembered fondly, or liked to recall at all.

For now following the road southeast and hoping that he would come upon a larger settlement sooner or later would have to do.

Thorin had barely been on the road for an hour when the sound of hoofs and a shrill whinny made him whirl around, hand instinctively going to his sword. The short time it took him to see the scene in front of him for what it was and start to run almost cost the man clinging to his bucking horse dearly.

It had never been widely known that Thorin Oakenshield, prince of dwarves, was actually quite fond of horses in all their forms, partly because he approved of animals with multiple practical uses who could also double as pets, and partly because they reminded him of his youth and precious memories of him and Frerin galloping through the vales surrounding Erebor on their ponies, laughing with joy as the wind dragged at their hair. They were some of the few memories of his adored brother that had not been tainted by fire and death and that alone made them priceless. Now, whenever he looked upon a horse, a flash of golden hair and blue eyes and laughing dimples brightened his mind. Hence, in such often dark times, it had made perfect sense to him to learn how to handle and treat horses.

Without hesitation Thorin jumped in front of the frantic horse’s head, avoiding flying hooves to catch the reins just below its mouth. It had been some time since he’d last dragged down a panicking horse, but with the full weight of a dwarf hanging from its bridle, the animal had little choice but to return its hooves to the ground. All the while Thorin kept up a steady stream of Khuzdul, for where any form of Sindarin or Quenya inherently calmed all benign animals, Khuzdul sounded so alien to their ears that they couldn’t help but halt a little to process the unfamiliar sounds.

As soon as the horse had calmed down enough, Thorin threw a glance at the frazzled rider and snapped, infusing his voice with the tone of command that Kíli claimed simply came naturally to him, “Get down!”

The man obeyed without question and Thorin turned his attention back to the horse.

“Now where does it hurt?” he murmured, gaze raking over the poor beasts heaving flanks, until it fell on its right hind leg which, now that he looked at it, didn’t quite seem to touch the ground properly.

Reassuring himself that the horse wasn’t going to bolt as soon as he let go off the reins, he moved over to the offending leg and tapped the horse’s knee. Evidently well-trained, it reflexively lifted its hoof up for Thorin to inspect.

“What’s his name?” Thorin asked after a quick look to the right, voice raised so that the man could hear him as he inspected the shod hoof.

“Arroch,” the man replied, still sounding slightly shell-shocked at everything that had transpired in the last few minutes.

Thorin’s lips twitched. “A mighty name for one so young.”

He could almost feel the other drawing himself up in indignation, finally seeming to regain his wits at the perceived slight to his horse. “He’s a great steed! Loyal and fast! This is the first time anything has happened – ”

“I wasn’t saying he’s unworthy of his title,” Thorin interrupted him before the lad could work himself into a right strop. “And I can tell you what prompted his behaviour. This hoof is shoddily shod. A nail worked itself loose.”

The man drew closer, curiously looking over Thorin’s shoulder as he ran his fingers over the horse-shoe looking for other irregularities. He endured the scrutiny with barely a sigh.

“Go fetch my pack, lad,” he finally huffed, when it became clear the other wouldn’t make himself useful of his own accord anytime soon.

Surprisingly he was obeyed without question or complaint – or perhaps not so surprisingly, as Thorin very well knew (and utilized) that he cut an imposing figure, despite his shorter height than a human’s.

A few minutes later he’d fixed what he could, setting the horse’s hoof down gently onto the ground once more. When no twitch or whine of protest came, he relaxed, glad to have at least temporarily rectified the problem.

Rising from his crouch, he properly looked at Arroch’s rider for the first time. Blond hair, blue eyes, fairly tall, and only wearing light armour and one sword he could only be one of the Rohirrim – not too surprising, given that this was the horse-lord’s land. He was also slightly older than Thorin had assumed – _humans_ , they looked so different – though he wouldn’t guess him to be older than two-score and five years at the most. Quite young by dwarven standards, if not necessarily by men’s.

“What’s your name?” he asked, gruffly polite.

The lad looked startled for a moment, before lightly blushing, probably remembering his manners a tad late. “Freca , Master Dwarf. And I thank you for aiding me when you needn’t have.”

“It was my pleasure, Master Freca. I’ve done all I could for Arroch’s hoof, but you should go to a smith sooner rather than later. And _not_ the one who did this in the first place, bad workmanship if I ever saw it.”

Freca sighed, his brow furrowing in worry. “I hail from Edoras and the city has just recently lost its smith to a fever. There’s no one left who knows the craft well enough.”

“You only had one smith in a whole town of men?” Thorin asked incredulous.

Freca shrugged. “There used to be two, but the other left for Minas Tirith a few months ago to get married to his lady love. The rest of our needs were always supplied by the traders passing through.”

He squinted slightly at Thorin, as if seeing him for the first time, and a light dawned on his face. “I don’t suppose you’re a smith, Master Dwarf? I was sent to find one, but so far no success has come my way.”

Thorin almost growled. He was a _dwarf_ , for Mahal’s sake! Of course he was a smith – and a far better one than anyone these men had seen before, he could all but guarantee. That didn’t, however, mean that this was a good idea. Thorin knew only too well the effects of racism and people rebelling against strangers in their midst.

“Yes, I am a smith,” he replied with more patience than he thought this question really warranted. “I am also a dwarf, Master Freca. Some might not take too kindly to that.”

“Oh no no, I don’t believe that would be a problem as long as your work is good,” Freca quickly assured him.

That didn’t exactly eliminate all of Thorin’s doubts in one fell swoop, for the young are often more naïve when it came to these things, but he did need a way to earn some coin and at least resupply. And if the townspeople turned out to be too hostile he could still leave again.

“Very well,” he said, shouldering his pack once more. “How far are we from Edoras?”

“Oh, we should be able to make it by nightfall,” Freca replied cheerfully. He halted. “Err, that is, if you don’t mind riding with me. Arroch is strong enough to carry us both.”

Looking at Arroch, then at Freca, and then back at the beautiful roan, Thorin sighed.

Only when they were finally both sitting on the quite tall horse’s back, Thorin squatting awkwardly behind Freca, did the man ask, “What is your name then, Master Dwarf?”

“Frerin,” Thorin answered shortly, and left it at that. Later he would remember that using his dead brother’s name wasn’t much of a cover if anyone who actually knew him stumbled across it, but for now, it felt both right and bittersweet. After all, when they’d both been young and foolish dwarflings growing up in the mightiest kingdom of middle-earth, he’d sometimes silently wished to be his brother, for he was much adored for his easy-going nature and sunny attitude, much unlike Thorin himself, on whose shoulders the burden of future kingship had rested heavily even then.

*

Thorin had to admit that he was grudgingly impressed. After arriving at Edoras Freca had shown him to the abandoned smithy and he’d got to work the next day, mostly re-doing horse-shoes, for it seemed that that was what the Rohirrim had missed most about not having a proper smith around. Now, two weeks later, he had to agree that Freca’s claim that the people of Edoras really didn’t mind outsiders appeared to be true. Most had been very accepting of him and quite overjoyed at finally having a smith again – there’d been the odd strange and disquieted look, but there were always some not so pleased by change. Truly a decent people these, he mused idly. Hard-working and tough, but they hadn’t lost that spark of kindness and warmth that toils sometimes erased. It had indeed been a good decision to come.

Freca, who had appointed himself as something of an unofficial care-taker, continued to loiter around the smithy whenever he wasn’t otherwise engaged, making interaction with others even smoother, whilst also helping with any cultural issues that came up.

All in all, Thorin was almost beginning to enjoy his stay, were it not for the unfortunate circumstances that had brought him here without his friends and kin.

Looming depression was averted by the sound of the door to the smithy opening. A man entered, looking just a little uncertain as he gazed around the darkened shop. Thorin hadn’t bothered with light, safe from the flickering fire in the forge.

“Yes?”

At the inquiry the man pulled himself together and approached the counter at the front of the room. “I need a new sword, Master Frerin,” he said quietly, but resolutely. “I’ve heard much praise of your work from those who’ve come here before me. Are you a sword-smith as well?”

Thorin once more had to suppress a sigh. For one thing Freca had apparently been busy spreading his name around the town and for another he was getting tired of having his abilities questioned. He was one of the greatest sword-smiths of the exiled dwarves, the one thing in which he truly excelled. Oh, he could make fine jewellery, shoe horses, craft working utensils, yes, but his true talent – and what he enjoyed, setting his blood afire with the power of making – lay in the forging of weapons as deadly as they were beautiful.

“I can make you a sword befitting a king,” he said quietly, “but would it be in worthy hands?”

He’d once had to forge beautiful weapons for undeserving ruffians, men of ill-repute even among men, for a pittance to keep enough food on the table to feed the last offspring of Durin during their darker years and he would be damned if he did so again with only himself to think of.

The question clearly caught the man wrong-footed, for he flushed a little and looked down at his feet, but Thorin’s estimation of him rose when he quickly looked up again, a stubborn set to his jaw as he met Thorin’s hard stare head-on.

“I might not be a king,” he said with a strong voice, “but I’ve never raised a sword in rage or injustice and I would promise you to do honourably by it.”

Thorin gazed at him squarely a little longer, though he already knew that he would do it. He could ask for no more than such an honest promise, really, and his fingers itched to take up his old craft once more.

“Acceptable,” he said. “Show me your hands.”

The man looked confused once more, but did so readily enough. Thorin studied their size and make-up for a moment then asked, “Your right hand is your sword-hand?”

The man nodded.

Gesturing for him to lower his hands again, Thorin headed to the back of the smithy to root for some parchment. Before the actual making of the sword, there would need to be a concept made.

“Do you wish to use a sword common to your people, which is used one-handedly, or perhaps a long-sword?”

The men shook his head. “Just a normal sword, Master Dwarf, one I can easily use on horse-back.”

“One-handed then, and no big cross-guard,” Thorin murmured, more to himself than to his new customer. His hand was already flying over the parchment, leaving delicate lines of charcoal behind.

Though most people assumed that dwarves had no aptitude for drawing, most every dwarf in fact at least learned to properly sketch – a skill needed both in construction and smith-work or gem-cutting. And most were rather good at it, even if fewer showed real talent for non-technical drawing like young Ori did.

In between lines Thorin remembered the man that was still hovering near the counter and looked up. “Unless you wish for any specific designs, you can go now. It will take a while until the sword is finished.”

The man bowed slightly in thanks and said, “Look for Holdwine, Freca will be able to tell you where I live” before leaving the smithy.

Thorin’s grunt of acknowledgement only reached the closing door and busy with his preparations as he was, he really couldn’t care less. There was no way he could charge Holdwine the amount that the sword he was about to receive deserved, but Thorin would at least have to cover his expenses and a little extra so he could afford spending so much time on one project.

Calculations finished, he went to find Freca to ask about acquiring the necessary materials and he thought that the feeling of fiery life coursing through his veins might be excitement. This wasn’t a dwarven smithy, nor was it Erebor, but it was a new start.

And when he stood opposite Holdwine as the other gazed upon his new sword with well-deserved awe and admiration, he quietly began to believe that it wasn’t only a new start, but perhaps also one that could in time be deemed good. Thorin had no delusions about his forfeited position in Erebor, one he had not deserved regardless, as consumed by the same gold sickness that he’d spent years fearing and hating alike as he’d let himself become, and while he missed his family with a fierce ache that he doubted would ever abate, he now knew that still, he could and would _live_. Alone, yes, yet not entirely forgotten as long as he helped other people with his skills. Considering that being useless had always been one of his greatest fears, that he could definitely live with.

*

Thorin closed the door to the smithy with a  quiet snap, his back to the rapidly dipping sun, and locked it in preparation of going to get some sleep, only to cock his head in sudden concentration.

His ‘young dwarflings looking for trouble’ senses were tingling. After so many years of helping Dís raise the two most mischievous and trouble-prone dwarflings in the Blue Mountains – and, he strongly suspected, anywhere else – developing such a sense had been a necessary form of self-defence. And Thorin had honed his to near perfection.

And indeed, there was a boy, in Thorin’s estimation a young one too, leading his pony down the street with a furtive air around him that instantly increased Thorin’s suspicions.

Stepping into the street almost right in front of the child, Thorin asked sternly, “What are you doing, young man?”

If the dwarf had still needed convincing that something was going on here, the other’s guilty jump certainly would’ve done it.

“Going for a ride, sir,” the boy mumbled, worrying his bottom lip. Clearly this was something he wasn’t supposed to do, but at least he was polite.

Thorin raised a single eyebrow. If Fíli and Kíli had been there, they would’ve probably called it the ‘eyebrow of doom’, for they’d often been at the receiving end of it. Pushing aside those bittersweet thoughts, Thorin kept his focus on the young blond in front of him. “At night?”

To be fair, the sun hadn’t, in fact, yet set, but it surely would’ve by the time the boy had made it out the gate if the guards let him – which Thorin doubted.

The sheepish look and shuffling of feet that now followed were also hardly new to Thorin and he sighed. Gentling his tone slightly, he prodded, “Why are you out so late, and without company, lad?”

“Éomund said I’m not brave enough to do it,” the boy finally mumbled, his voice quiet, though his head was now raised, chin set in defiance.

Thorin wanted to groan. One thing he really hadn’t missed when Fíli and Kíli had finally outgrown this phase, was this particular example of the foolishness of youth. Tell a child he or she couldn’t do anything and they were _guaranteed_ to try anyway.

For a moment Thorin entertained the tempting notion of simply escorting the lad back to wherever he had just snuck out from and washing his hands off the whole affair – because really, he’d thought he was done with that sort of thing and children were always so hard to deal with – but his conscience and the big blue eyes under a slightly sloppy wheat-blond fringe staring at him quickly put an end to the idea.

(Also, the boy reminded him almost painfully of a young Kíli, when he hadn’t been older than perhaps twenty years of age – or maybe he simply missed his nephews so much that every child reminded him of them.)

Repressing a sigh, Thorin lowered himself to his knees in front of the lad, in order to be on eye level with him. “What’s your name?”

“Théoden,” he replied, staring at Thorin.

“Now Théoden, do you want to be a warrior one day?”

The boy stared at him as if he’d gone mad. “ _Of course_ ,” he replied, as if the idea that he might not had never even crossed his mind.

“As a warrior, there will be times when not listening to others could get you or your comrades killed,” Thorin said, voice utterly serious – for this was something that all who not only fight alone had to learn. “I’m sure you’re thinking that this situation is completely different, but it’s not by much, not really. Riding out alone in the dark is dangerous, as your mother and father have surely told you, and that is why you shouldn’t have let yourself be provoked by Éomund. What does it matter whether you’re brave enough to ride out at night, when you can be brave enough to tell Éomund that you’d rather be prudent like a warrior should be and not jeopardize your safety?”

Somewhere in the middle of his little speech Théoden’s face had lost its defiant angry tilt and become thoughtful, Thorin’s logic obviously having struck a chord in him.

 “So if I turned back now, I would act like a warrior should? And could tell Éomund that?” Théoden finally asked hopefully and Thorin had to hold back a chuckle. The lad obviously had a knack for finding the _one_ way out of trouble that would leave his pride intact.

Thorin nodded solemnly and rose, patting the patiently waiting pony’s head. For a moment he let himself admire the pony’s obvious good breed, which shone through in its glossy black coat and clear, attentive eyes.

“Come on then, let’s get this beauty back to the stables and you back home before your parents start to worry, aye?”

Nodding Théoden turned around to lead his charge back up the hill, Thorin falling in step beside them. For the first few steps neither of them spoke, but Thorin felt Théoden’s curious eyes on him, so he wasn’t surprised when the other finally blurted out, “Are you really a dwarf? I’ve heard the others talk about you, but I’ve never really seen a dwarf before.”

“Yes, I’m really a dwarf,” Thorin replied, his lips twitching in amusement.

“And you’re a warrior?” Théoden asked next, excitement building in his voice. “Are all dwarves warriors?”

Thorin had nearly had forgotten the incessant drive for information that the young possessed, always wanting to know _everything_. “That I am. And no, not all dwarves are warriors, though nearly all of us can fight and most are trained in the art of war.”

Judging by the look on Théoden’s face that sounded like a dream come true to him. His next question, however, caught Thorin of guard, though logically it really shouldn’t have. “And what’s your name, Mister Dwarf? You know mine.”

Thorin hesitated for a moment, _Frerin_ hovering on the tip of his tongue but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to lie to this sweet young lad. “My name is Thorin,” he said quietly, and it nearly felt strange to use his real name, the one he had left behind at Erebor along with his destiny and kin – and he’d gone by Frerin for the last two months here in Edoras already. He leaned a little closer, whispering conspiratorially, “But it’s a secret name, so you can tell no one, all right?”

Théoden’s eyes grew huge. “Do all dwarves have secret names?”

“They do,” Thorin said solemnly, which was true enough, even though that usually referred to their Khuzdul names, which weren’t ever shared with outsiders.

Théoden managed to chat continuously all the way to the stables. Thorin let his voice wash over him, giving short answers at the appropriate places and simply enjoyed the rare company of one so young and unguarded. He was also quite gratified to see that Théoden obviously knew his way around horses and went around stabling his pony, whose name Thorin now learned to be Blackmane with sure efficiency.

Thorin just wished that, when he had asked where Théoden lived, the boy hadn’t cheerfully pointed at the golden hall at the top of the hill. That coupled with the vague memory of Freca telling him that King Thengel had a small son, made him want to kick himself. Of course he would manage to run into the prince of all people when all he wanted was to keep a low profile.

He sighed. “Is there, perhaps, a side entrance?”

One which _wouldn’t_ alert the whole hall to Théoden’s return with a dwarf, preferably.

Théoden nodded. “We use it all the time.”

He bounded off, leaving Thorin to hurry after him, hoping that maybe he would be lucky enough to deposit Théoden at the entrance and leave before anyone could notice him.

A hope that quite unfortunately went down the drain as soon as they approached the unassuming brown door at the side of the hall and a man came hurrying out of it. A man, whose bearing and clothes almost screamed ‘king’ to Thorin’s experienced eye. The urge to bang his head against the next available hard surface grew exponentially stronger.

Meanwhile Théoden happily cried, “Papa! Look who I met!” which neatly cut off his last chance of escape, as Thengel’s attention now came to rest on Thorin.

“My lord,” Thorin acknowledged the sovereign of Rohan with a short bow. “This young one was set on sneaking out with his pony. I assumed you’d rather have him returned home.”

Thengel turned back to his son, raising a brow. “Théoden?”

“It’s true,” Théoden mumbled with much the same demeanour that he’d displayed when Thorin had questioned him. “Éomund said I wasn’t brave enough to do it.” His face brightened again, and he tugged Thorin forward by his sleeve. “But Mister Thorin here said that a real warrior shouldn’t have done that because warriors are careful and listen to their parents.”

Thorin almost winced. So much for secret names, though he really should’ve seen this coming – Théoden was, after all, still a child and children rarely lied to their parents, unless it was as misguided attempts to get out of trouble, as it were.

“Did he now? He must be a very wise dwarf then,” Thengel commented, his eyes sharp as they surveyed Thorin, who kept his face blandly neutral.

After a long moment of seizing each other up, the king turned back to his son. “Why don’t you go and get ready for bed, son? We shall talk about your disobedience tomorrow.”

Though he looked a little disappointed, Théoden knew better than to protest the veiled order. With a last grin and ‘goodbye Mister Thorin’ he vanished through the door at a run, and Thengel motioned for Thorin to follow him as he stepped into the hall as well.

“I must thank you for bringing my son back before he could get himself into danger,” Thengel said once they’d settled down in a small meeting room.

“It was no trouble,” Thorin replied graciously, which was only true to a degree. Théoden had indeed been no trouble at all, but what was happening right now, that definitely had the potential for big trouble. “He’s a good lad, my lord.”

Thengel inclined his head. “That he is, Master Thorin, was it? The thing is, as far as I’m aware there’s only one dwarf in Edoras at the moment and he goes by the name of Frerin.”

His gaze was sharp once more as he looked Thorin directly in the eye. “How might that be?”

This time Thorin didn’t bother smothering his sigh. Thengel obviously already suspected enough for a lie to be regrettably useless at this point. “Frerin was my brother,” he explained. “I wished to not draw attention to myself, so I used his name instead of my own.”

“Did you commit a crime?” Thengel asked, eyes hardening. Admittedly it was a fair question – folk seldom changed their names for well-intentioned reasons.

“No, I did not,” he answered, meeting the king’s gaze squarely and with as much sincerity as he could muster. “I simply gave my word to someone that I would… disappear, in exchange for something very precious to me.”

Thengel leaned back into his seat, a contemplative look crossing his features. Thorin was relieved to see that Thengel at least didn’t seem to be completely disinclined to believe him.

“There’s a tale,” the king finally spoke, a note of knowing in his voice that made an uneasy shiver crawl down Thorin’s spine, “that my mother once told me, of a large group of dwarves passing through Dunland and the Gap of Rohan. Of a king named Thrór and his son and grandchildren.”

Again, Thorin met his gaze levelly, his face carefully blank. “I am only a wandering dwarven smith, my lord, nothing more.”

Once that would’ve been a lie – now, he wasn’t so sure.

Thengel considered that for a moment. “And a warrior, as your bearing and what you told my son indicate.”

“Every dwarf can fight,” Thorin said, stubbornly ignoring the voice at the back of his mind that was telling him it might be wise to behave slightly less obstinate.

Apparently his evasion wasn’t doing him much good either. Up the king’s eyebrow went. “But not every dwarf sits with the door in his view, Master Thorin.”

“In some parts of middle-earth one must always be cautious to survive.”

Some of his grimness must’ve show on his face, for Thengel seemed to finally relax his guard a little. “Indeed. Just tell me, were we to be attacked by any enemy, would you aid us?

“I would,” Thorin answered without hesitation or a shred of doubt.

For the first time Thengel grants him a smile, even if it was a small one. “Then all is well. I’ve heard only good of your work as a smith and we sorely needed one. Holdwine and Freca especially sing your praises.”

“They’re too kind.”

There was something slightly mischievous glinting in Thengel’s eyes when he stated, “There’s an old yearly celebration taking place here on the morrow. Will you come? Many will want to see for themselves if the rumours of dwarves being able to drink men under the table is true.”

Thorin wanted to groan. This would not be conducive to keeping a low profile. But it would certainly be rude to decline, so he bowed his head lightly and said, “I will come.”

At least Thengel had made no move to further question Thorin’s origins and reasons for staying and had thus given him his tacit acceptance. It seemed the King of Rohan when pushing an issue would do more harm than good.

Now he just needed to get through whatever festivities were to happen the next day without any fuss.

*

The festivities turned out to be surprisingly similar to dwarven feasts. The hall was filled with loud noises and people and there was a lot of ale going around, of which Thorin only partook sparingly. He had no intention of getting drunk, a course of action that he deemed unwise at the moment, as a lone dwarf amongst men. And while Thorin liked to enjoy a tankard or two occasionally – usually when Dwalin had dragged him from the forge with some excuse or other, or simply a muttered ‘you need to loosen up, Thorin, or your face is going to stick with that sour look’ – he saved getting properly, roaring drunk for a few select occasions during the year – the anniversaries of the Battle of Azanulbizar and the coming of Smaug to remember all those lost those days.

Being seated next to Freca, conversation flowed easily for most of the evening and Thorin was about to let himself hope that it wouldn’t be so bad after all and nothing untoward would happen, when their conversation about different uses of the sword was rudely interrupted.

“What would you midget know about sword-fighting, eh?” a man asked loudly from across the table. Thorin doubted he was still sober, or maybe he was just particularly dense for starting trouble in the Golden Hall of Meduseld directly under the King’s nose.

Thorin didn’t want to cause any more trouble or have this escalate into exactly the kind of situation he’d wanted to avoid, so he ignored the slight, keeping his gaze focused on Freca instead. Unfortunately his friend wasn’t as uncaring, for he was glaring at the man opposite.

“What, can’t speak, midget?” the man jeered, apparently not having noticed the slight hush that had fallen over the crowd, most men’s attention now focused on the two of them.

“I see no reason to speak to a drunk who is searching for trouble,” Thorin retorted, now that the option of keeping silent wasn’t open anymore without a complete loss of face.

The man’s reddened face distorted into an angry grimace. “Take that back!”

He looked ready to jump over the table in his rage and Thorin kept a keen eye on the other, only too familiar with the capriciously violent nature of some people when drunk.

“I also wish to inform you that ‘midget’ is a derogatory term, which no dwarf would thank you for uttering,” he added coolly. Not starting trouble was one thing, but he wasn’t about to let a drunk man trample all over his dignity without fighting back.

Just as the man opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly even more offensive, Thengel’s deep bellow rang through the hall, silencing everyone at once. “Enough!”

The king was standing at the head of the long table, glowering at the source of discontent on this festive occasion. “I will not have a quarrel disturb these peaceful festivities. Helgar,” he addressed Thorin’s aggressor, “either apologize to Master Frerin, or meet him on the steps tomorrow for a formal duel, as is his right under Rohirrim law to demand for your insults.”

Thorin looked up in surprise. He hadn’t known about that particular tradition, though challenging someone to a duel of honour wasn’t a novel concept to him.

Helgar’s mouth worked silently and furiously for a moment, before he spit out, “I’m not going to apologize! It’s not my fault we’re letting all manner of scum into our city these days!”

Sometimes Thorin wished such simple-minded bigotry weren’t to be found everywhere he went. And still he addressed King Thengel calmly. “I wish for no trouble, my lord.”

“It is our law,” Thengel replied sternly. “I cannot tolerate such dangerous disrespect from my people.”

“The fight would hardly be a fair one,” Thorin felt obliged to point out. “I’ve fought larger opponents all my life, but I doubt he has ever crossed swords with a dwarf.”

“I’m not afraid of you!” Helgar shouted, incensed at the notion of being inferior to someone he judged solely by their short height.

As far as Thorin was concerned, that decided it then. He gave a short bow in Helgar’s direction. “Then I will meet you in combat on the morrow.”

When he turned back to the King, Thorin could’ve sworn that Thengel _winked_ at him.

“The fight of honour shall take place two hours past sunrise,” Thengel decreed and sat down again, diverting his attention to his seat neighbour in a clear gesture that the topic was closed.

Before anyone could object, Thorin rose and left the hall. The clear night-air did wonders to cool his carefully restrained temper. A part of him resented that he now needed to swallow down his pride on a daily basis once more, when there’d been times that no one would’ve dared to insult the prince of Durin’s folk in such a way, but perhaps it was for the best. His arrogance had cost him enough already.

*

The next morning dawned fair and bright and Thorin couldn’t quite suppress the unbecoming sense of smugness at what was about to happen.

When he arrived at the bottom of the steps to the Golden Hall, a fairly sizeable crowd of spectators had already amassed. Whispers broke out as he pushed through the ranks when they noticed that he hadn’t even bothered to put on more than the rudimentary, light armour that he usually wore with his sword at his side.

Helgar was waiting on the cleared and flat area just below the stairs and gave Thorin what probably was supposed to pass as a condescending smile when the dwarf stepped into the circle, though he looked slightly less cocky and a lot more uncomfortable without the influence of the ale bolstering his courage. Perhaps he even regretted his rash actions of the night before now, in the harsh light of day. Thorin did not return the smile, but simply stared at his opponent stonily until Thengel appeared with his entourage.

Thorin did smile slightly then, though it was directed at Théoden, who gave him a cheerful wave.

He turned back towards Helgar, letting Thengel’s opening words wash over him without much notice as he let his mind sink into the calm space of complete concentration before battle.

For a moment Thorin wished for the familiar weight of Orcrist in his hand, the thought of the beautiful sword still in that traitorous elf’s hands sending hot anger pooling in his gut, but he let himself be distracted only for a small moment before returning all of his attention to the opponent in front of him. They both awaited the king’s word.

“Begin!” Thengel called from the steps, and Helgar immediately rushed towards Thorin, who hadn’t moved a muscle

The fight was over before it could really begin. Many people laboured under the misconception that dwarves were slow because they were bulky and stout. And while it was true that elves could indeed move faster than dwarves, _slow_ was not an adjective one could apply to a well-trained dwarven warrior. Much to Helgar’s misfortune, Thorin was both well-trained and well-practised.

A hush fell over the crowd as the tip of Thorin’s sword landed just below Helgar’s collarbone after only two parries. A single flick of his wrist would be enough to slip the other’s throat open.

“Do you yield?” he asked, firm voice echoing through the open space.

The other stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, before, quite to Thorin’s confusion, he started chortling. “I yield, and may I learn from it.”

Thorin resisted the urge to raise his brows in doubt at the sudden change of temper. Either Helgar was truly contrite – and simply a loud-mouthed, racist drunk, if there was such a thing – or he was shrewder than Thorin had given him credit for and had realized that the only way not to turn public favour completely away from him was to be gracious in defeat.

Nodding once, Thorin withdrew his sword and sheathed it one fluid movement. He bowed to King Thengel once – noting with some fond amusement that Théoden was currently going from goggly-eyed awe to bouncing around in excitement – and left the place to the sound of many hushed whispers.

He only allowed himself bit of satisfaction. Just a little bit.

Barely a few hours later the door to the smithy opened and Thorin was surprised to see Thengel step into the dimly lit interior. A second later a blond head popped up next to his father, sporting a wide grin.

Thorin set down the tool he was sharpening. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

Thengel gave him a small smile. “I wish to commission a sword. It seems to me that it would be a waste indeed to have the most talented smith we’ve had in Edoras for a long while here and not make use of his skills.”

With a slight flourish that Thorin immediately recognized as part of the showmanship and timing people sometimes expect their leader to exhibit, the King pulled a sheathed sword out from under his cloak.

“This is Herugrim,” he said, an unmistakeable note of pride in his voice. “It’s been a family heirloom for generations.”

He handed the sword over with some reluctance, but seemed reassured when Thorin handled it carefully and with the appropriate reverence. Thorin knew well enough that family heirlooms were a serious business and often of far more sentimental than practical value.

“Can you fashion something similar, a sister-sword? A fitting gift for my beloved wife, Morwen.”

Thorin nodded wordlessly, still studying Herugrim down to the smallest detail. If he were to fashion a similar sword he’d need all the reference he could get, from the guard made up of two horseheads facing each other, to the stylized pommel, and the simple, undecorated blade.

“It will take time,” he warned, returning the sword to Thengel’s waiting hands. “A blade like this isn’t made in a few hours.” Thorin paused for a moment, grimacing at what he was about to ask, but he saw no alternative. “I will also need some of my payment beforehand as I do not have the necessary funds to purchase all the materials I need.”

Some of his reluctance must’ve shown on his face, for Thengel’s stern face softened a bit. “Of course,” he said. “Consider it done.”

(Much later, when he presented Thengel with the finished sword, Thorin still wouldn’t have dreamed that he’d just created the sword that would someday strike down the Witchking of Angmar in the hands of a Daughter of Kings and Shieldmaiden of Rohan.)

Thorin assumed the business part of the conversation to be over when the King finally looked down at Théoden, who’d been tugging at his father’s sleeve for the last few minutes, and stopped ignoring the youngster’s attempts to grab his attention.

“Can I ask him now, please, please?” Théoden implored, widening his eyes in an – supremely fake, if Thorin had ever learned _anything_ during his years living with Fíli and Kíli – innocent and pleading expression.

Thengel’s face assumed an equally familiar look, caught half between amusement and grimace. “Yes, you may, Théoden.”

“Mister Thorin,” Théoden started with surprising graveness considering his jubilant mood, “would you teach me how to fight like a dwarf? Like you do?”

That, Thorin hadn’t expected. Instead of answering directly, he turned to Thengel. “He has talked to you about this?”

“I’ve given my permission,” Thengel confirmed with a nod. “He is young still, but the world we live in will require him to fight sooner rather than later and I would have my son train with the best.”

Thorin acknowledged the compliment with a dip of his head, though he was still frowning. “How old are you, Théoden?”

“I am ten!” Théoden cried with the usual boastful air of the young thinking they were positively _ancient_ already.

“That _is_ young,” Thorin stated, mostly to himself. “Has he had any training?”

Thengel shook his head. “Nothing more than the usual brawls between children.”

Thorin tilted his head thoughtfully. That would be an advantage, were he truly to train the boy – at least he wouldn’t have to bother with unlearning things he’d learned before. However, a dwarf teaching someone of a different race to fight, while not entirely unprecedented, was generally not done, their battle skills as jealously guarded as knowledge of mining and forging. And it was unlikely that Thorin would even be around long enough to impart more than basic knowledge as dwarves trained for many decades before achieving any level of mastery. Yet Thorin knew himself well enough to realize that whatever the reasons against it, his heart had already made its decision. He would train this son of kings as much as he was able, if the lad proved dedicated and willing.

Thorin fixed Théoden with a firm stare. “I will train you,” he said, voice solemn in this vocal pledge, “but there will be rules and if you do not show the necessary dedication to learning, I retain the right to stop, if I deem it useless to continue.”

There was relieved gratitude in Thengel’s eyes when he bowed his head in acceptance, the kind of gratitude that any father, or uncle as it were, recognized.

It seemed Thorin would be busier than anticipated during the following months, and long after father and son had left the smithy, he sat in front of the forge’s fire, pensive. As he stared into the flames, Théoden’s young face and bright grin morphed into two different ones with their cherished smiles and sparkling eyes. Longing still sat deep in his heart whenever he thought of those who thought him dead. Not only his sister-sons, whom he had failed so often, but also his dear sister. He was sure, however, that this situation was preferable to the alternative. Dis was a strong dwarf and had lived through much sorrow – much as she was now probably mourning her brother – but Thorin knew that the death of her sons long before their time would’ve broken her with the same surety that he knew that stone was strong, and for that alone he would never be able to regret his choice. Even though it broke his heart to think of them grieving in vain; and not only them but his oldest friends as well. He was fully aware that Balin and Dwalin had joined the quest for him, not for Erebor, not for gold, not for slaying the dragon, not even for home, but for him, Thorin, and to be there now when he was not must be a pain hardly imaginable – and every time his gaze now fell on his ring and he remembered the day that they’d forged each other matching ones to wear and swore to never forget or abandon their bond, guilt surged up without mercy and that, too, he took as his just punishment.

Those were the five he worried about most, whom his thoughts never abandoned for long, for despite the deepening bonds that had formed over the course of their journey, the rest of the company had still thought of him as a king foremost and while he believed that they would mourn him with the same loyalty they’d graced him with before, they would not battle despair over his death.

*

Almost a year he spent in Edoras, a time of peace and sometimes, occasionally even one of little glimpses of joy that he’d thought gone from his life.

Surprisingly, the first thought that went through his mind when he heard the rider shouting that there was a group of dwarves approaching on the north road was that he was glad he’d thought to tell Thengel to find two of his men with some interest in metalwork and have them learn enough of Thorin’s craft to make do in case he left. Which he would have to, now.

And that thought led cleanly into, what in _Mahal’s_ name were dwarves doing here? Thorin doubted it had anything to do with him – perhaps an envoy to confirm future trade or some such? – but the timing was unfortunate nonetheless, since any dwarf would be pretty much guaranteed to recognize Thorin as Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór; which was the exact thing he was trying to _avoid_.

It left him no choice but to hurriedly pack his things and prepare to depart, for all that he now found himself reluctant to leave this place he’d grown to like, and the friends he’d made. The thought of Théoden especially made his heart grow heavy. They’d spent many hours together, Thorin instructing and Théoden learning and had become quite used to having each other around.

He did climb up the hill to the Golden Hall before leaving Edoras – that much he owed both Thengel and his son.

At the news Théoden looked like someone had just killed his favourite pony and protests soon followed, but Thengel shushed his son, a grave and far too knowing look in his eyes as he gave Thorin his best wishes and an invitation to return whenever he wished. Thorin got the impression that the lord of the Rohirrim had never expected him to stay for as long as he had. Thengel didn’t question Thorin’s motives for what he had to perceive as running away, however – a show of trust which warmed Thorin more than he would’ve expected. Whenever he felt that he knew the world something happened to surprise him anew, good and bad.

Sometime during their exchange Théoden had quietly slipped away, and while Thorin regretted that they might part this way, he understood that his young friend was distraught and overwhelmed and angry at his leaving and didn’t begrudge him the distance.

“He’s a good lad,” Thorin said quietly, unable to completely eradicate the wistful note from his voice. “Treasure him.”

“I do, and he knows it,” Thengel returned with equal sincerity, and his gaze was kind when he added, “And I’m sure whoever you think of when that look enters your eyes knows it too.”

Thorin sighed. “Perhaps.”

His words were sceptical, but in his heart he knew that Thengel was right. Fíli and Kíli would always love him and remember him as the uncle who’d basically raised them alongside their mother after their real father’s death, whether Thorin deserved it or not. But all the same he couldn’t help but think that he should’ve made it a little bit clearer just how much they meant to him, instead of letting his affection be an unsaid surety.

The sound of hooves on the gravel in front of the hall interrupted his thoughts and when he raised his eyes he blinked at the sight of Théoden coming towards him with Blackmane in tow, the same determined set to his chin that had caught Thorin’s attention the first time they’d met.

Théoden marched right up to Thorin and thrust the reins into the dwarf’s hands.

“You have him,” he declared stoutly. “You will need a pony more than I.”

Thorin stared at the boy for many long seconds. Théoden loved his pony, that much had been clear from the moment Thorin had seen the two together.

“Are you sure you wish to give me such a kingly gift?” he asked gently, not wanting to take anything from Théoden that the boy didn’t truly want to offer.

Théoden nodded, stubbornness written all over his face. “I’m a prince aren’t I? So I should give kingly gifts. And you started teaching me how to fight and – ”

Théoden’s voice hitched and it sounded much smaller when he continued, “And I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Thorin said in complete honesty, and he couldn’t deny being touched by Théoden’s words.

And though they hadn’t been particularly physically affectionate with each other, he opened his arms invitingly and Théoden didn’t hesitate to jump into them and cling to his favourite dwarf – as Thorin had reminded him repeatedly he was also the _only_ dwarf the prince knew, but that had hardly stopped him.

And that was how Thorin came to ride out of Edoras on the prince’s pony and with the royal family waving him farewell, when he hadn’t even been sure he wouldn’t be chased out of the city by people with pitchforks a few months ago.

*

Minas Tirith turned out to not suit Thorin quite as well as Edoras. While even he admired some of the masonry of the city, the people seemed more wary and suspicious of outsiders and judging by the many queer looks he received dwarven folk didn’t make it this far south often.

It didn’t exactly help that on his second day in the city Thorin almost ran into a dwarf and had to jump behind a serendipitous pillar rather ungracefully to avoid notice and though, admittedly, that wasn’t the city’s fault it still made Thorin more liable to dislike the place just on principle.

Leaning against the wall behind his new best friend the pillar Thorin cursed silently. Dwarves in Edoras _and_ Minas Tirith? This was getting a little too strange to just be a coincidence – not that Thorin believed much in coincidences in the first place – and if there was one thing Thorin absolutely abhorred it was feeling confused – possibly a side effect of having been de facto king for so long and usually being the one ordering others around, meaning he always knew what was going on. And right now, Thorin was very confused as to why so many troops of dwarves were suddenly littering the cities of men. The notion that they might be looking for _him_ never even crossed his mind however – after all what was the use of searching for someone dead?

For a moment Thorin wondered if his paranoia had finally caught up with him and he’d snapped, but only for a very short moment – seeing as he could spot the back of the dwarf striding up the street when peeking past his pillar.

Sighing, Thorin pulled his hood deep over his face and resigned himself to leaving _again_.

And if having to leave the city after barely having arrived wasn’t enough, Thorin also had to find, after some tedious sneaking back down the city rings, that apparently his inn was also used by the new dwarves, judging by the one loitering in front of it.

Thorin barely resisted the overpowering urge to growl. The only positive thing about this day so far had been that he’d had the presence of mind to buy provisions first thing on entering the city and now didn’t have to worry about _that_ , but there was plenty to worry about anyway, what with dwarves suddenly popping up everywhere and barricading the inn.

Casting about for something to ensure his unnoticed entrance, Thorin’s gaze alighted on a little girl selling flowers – or maybe giving them out? The traditions of men were so strange – not far from him.

“Hey,” he said quietly, leaning down as to not completely tower over her. He produced a coin in his hand and held it up. “How would you like to do me a favour?”

The girl looked up at him and nodded solemnly. Thorin pressed the coin into her small hand without hesitance. “I want you to go and distract that” he pointed, “dwarf. I don’t care how, just get him to move from that spot for a little while, yes?”

She immediately brightened up at the suggestion of mischief, her eyes sparkling brightly. “Easily done, Master Dwarf,” she piped and bounded off.

Thorin watched her go fondly. Whoever had started that nonsense of women being the weaker folk than men or some such clearly needed to pay more attention to devious little girls.

It soon became clear that he was, indeed, watching a master at work, for her imitation of a frightened, teary-eyed youngster needing help – with frantic babbling and gestures and all –was so flawless that Thorin was half-certain he would’ve fallen for it himself. Within seconds the strange dwarf was following the girl down a side-street and Thorin slipped into the inn undetected.

Fifteen minutes later he was making his way out of the gates of Minas Tirith, only an upturned food wagon and the following commotion behind him a testament to him ever having been there – and really, the food wagon would’ve remained unscathed if there hadn’t been _another_ dwarf not so subtly keeping an eye on the gates.

The North-South Road lay in front of him, wide and empty and depressingly familiar as he’d travelled down the same stretch from Edoras only a little more than a day ago. And while dwarves didn’t tend to think of themselves as small, the surroundings of Minas Tirith conspired against him and he set off again with the uneasy feeling that he really hadn’t been meant to become a wanderer for the rest of his life, especially not caught under the huge expanse of sky all around him.

Urging the loyal Blackmane into a light trot, Thorin considered his options. For a while he entertained the notion of hiding out in Rivendell for a time, as that was about the least likely place to accidentally run into any dwarves – and he was getting decidedly tired of the near misses – but then decided against it on the sheer principle that he probably wouldn’t be able to bear Lord Elrond’s smug look once the elf figured out what he was doing. Besides, though Elrond might not be Thranduil, he was still an _elf_ and thus not exactly trustworthy in Thorin’s books – who knew what he might do when the supposedly dead former King under the Mountain turned up on his doorstep?

And that left, on Thorin’s rather short list of acquaintances, _Bilbo_ and the Shire as the last potential hiding place. The thought made him wince and feel a little encouraged at the same time. Bilbo was still, whatever else had happened, a friend that Thorin had betrayed in the worst possible way, and certainly deserved better than Thorin turning up on his doorstep unannounced, barrelling back into the hobbit’s life, when the dwarf didn’t even know if Bilbo still wanted anything to do with him. But Thorin also found that he missed the hobbit, whom he had grown close to despite all odds, and perhaps a visit could go a long way towards mending at least some of the broken bridges that Thorin somehow seemed to leave behind everywhere he went.

And, truthfully, it wasn’t as if he had a lot of options anyway, so the Shire it was.

*

The same small round door with its vibrant green colour that Thorin had stridden through so purposefully more than a year ago now loomed darkly in front of the dwarf, who, if asked, would never admit to having spent ten minutes simply trying to stare it into submission already, all the while cursing himself for a cowardly fool. Which in this case, he undoubtedly was. At least it was already dusk and the road behind him deserted for the time being – the last thing he needed was a crowd of whispering curious hobbits.

Finally he sighed, squared his shoulders, told himself firmly that after standing up to Azog, Smaug, and nefarious elven kings, he would be damned if a _door_ of all things– and a perfectly unassuming one at that – would beat him, and knocked.

It opened so fast that Thorin would’ve had half a mind to be suspicious that Bilbo might’ve been aware of his presence and waiting for him to man up, if he hadn’t been so busy staring at the hobbit who stood framed in the light spilling out of the entrance. Bilbo Baggins hadn’t aged a day since Thorin had seen him last, and finally being in the presence of someone familiar and safe was proving to be a greater relief than the dwarf had anticipated, even if he still wasn’t sure what Bilbo thought of him now

“So you’re not dead then,” Bilbo said after a moment of mutual silence, his voice so perfectly deadpan that Thorin couldn’t help the beginnings of a smile forming on his face.

The implications of Bilbo’s complete lack of surprise quickly sobered him again, however. “You knew.”

“Thranduil told me,” Bilbo stated, his face doing one of those complicated wriggly things that usually seemed to happen when he couldn’t decide which emotion he was feeling was the prevalent one. “A little hard to give me your message without revealing you to be alive, don’t you think? And only after he made me promise not to tell anyone for your sake, of course.”

“I don’t think he told you all of it,” Thorin said quietly, finally placing the odd note in Bilbo’s voice. It was anger – and given that the hobbit probably thought Thorin had simply made off without saying goodbye to anyone, without at least having the decency to ask him for forgiveness in person, Thorin could hardly blame him.

“He told me that you’d survived the battle and decided that due to your gold madness and bad judgement before the battle that Erebor would be better off without you,” Bilbo all but snapped, so at odds with his usually fairly mild-mannered bearing. “And by the time he told me you’d already gone before anyone could talk sense into your stubborn head.”

Thorin met Bilbo’s furious gaze squarely. “That is certainly not the whole truth. Even I am not that much of a monster to abandon everyone I love without goodbye for such a reason.” He paused, gesturing towards the door. “Will you let me in? As much as I enjoy standing on your doorsteps, some things are best talked about in private.”

“Oh.” Bilbo started, as if he’d completely forgotten his absence of manners. “Of course.”

He stepped aside and didn’t even comment on the state of Thorin’s shoes on his nice floor, as Thorin had half expected.

“I’ll go and make some tea,” Bilbo announced while Thorin rid himself of his travelling cloak and pack.

Though Thorin saw it as the avoidance it was, he made no comment and only followed slowly after the bustling hobbit. The ritual of tea making probably calmed his friend down, and for the conversation that was about to happen, they would both need all the calm they could get.

A few minutes later they both sat at Bilbo’s spotless dining table, cups of tea cradled in their hands and tense silence between them.

Before Thorin even had the chance to open his mouth and start explaining, Bilbo broke the silence.

“Did you mean it?” he asked, sounding so quietly desolate that Thorin’s heart jumped painfully in his chest. “Did you tell Thranduil to tell me that and _did you mean it_?”

“I did,” Thorin replied instantly, pushing aside his self-recrimination for this whole mess in favour of focusing completely on Bilbo, on trying to make it _better_. “I did ask him to tell you my regret and plea for forgiveness even though I know I do not deserve it.”

Bilbo looked to be caught between relieved happiness and rebellion. “But why didn’t you come talk to me in _person_ then?”

“Because I couldn’t!” Thorin replied, volume raised a little in his own frustration. “Fíli and Kíli were dying and when I _begged_ Thranduil to help them, that was his condition!”

Bilbo stared at him, aghast. “ _What_?”

Thorin took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down before his temper could erupt. “In exchange for healing my sister-sons Thranduil asked for me to leave Erebor and never come back, letting everyone believe me to have died in the battle. He only agreed to deliver my message to you for your own sake.” He sighed, anger quickly turning into weariness. “And believe me, I would’ve done more for their sake.”

“Oh, I’m such an _idiot_ ,” Bilbo breathed. “Of course there was more to it, of course.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Thorin reminded him gently, “that was the whole point. No one knew.”

Bilbo raised his eyes from where they’d strayed to a stain on the table top in his consternation to meet Thorin’s gaze. “But why didn’t you come back? Why didn’t you return once Fíli and Kíli were well again? Thranduil had no right to demand such a thing from you!”

Thorin almost smiled at Bilbo’s anger on his behalf and would easily admit to feeling no small amount of satisfaction that at last Bilbo’s favourable picture of elves might start to crack. But he didn’t smile, not now when Bilbo had asked the question that he himself had asked himself many times.

“I gave him my word,” he said quietly, hoping that after all his travels with dwarves Bilbo would recognize the significance of the statement. “And unlike some, I keep my word. What would I be if I let go of my honour too, after everything I’ve done and seen? Certainly even less than I am now.”

Bilbo opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but Thorin forestalled any arguments by continuing, “There’re other reasons as well. For one Erebor, as a newly rebuild kingdom, cannot afford to make an enemy of the Woodland Elves. It needs alliances with both the men of Dale and Thranduil, whether I like it or not.”

Thorin paused, his lips curling into a dry half-smile. “Besides, as much as I loathe to admit that anything that comes out of that cursed elf’s mouth has merit, what he told you about my supposed motivations isn’t all untrue.”

“You cannot believe that,” Bilbo cried, his eyes narrowing. “Yes, your judgement before the battle was flawed, but no one would fault you for it when it was the gold madness talking, not you.”

“No kingdom deserves a king who falls under the spell of trinkets so easily,” Thorin growled. “I’ve seen the effects of gold madness in ruling when my grandfather felt ill and I _swore_ to myself that I wouldn’t repeat his mistakes. But I did, and the damage I caused is almost too great to bear. No one should want a king like that. Besides, as far as I’ve heard, Fíli is doing very well and has matured into a better king than I could ever have hoped to be.”

Bilbo’s eyes and face had gone soft with pity and sympathy throughout his diatribe and Thorin looked away, not wanting to see any more of it.

“I do not believe that to be true,” the hobbit said, stout in his defence of Thorin. “Fíli is a great king, yes, but Erebor was always going to be your kingdom and it _needs_ you. Fíli is still young and he himself told me that he had no desire to take the throne so early, that he’d wanted to see years of your rule before his own duty called. And I’ve seen the way you command loyalty and respect from your subjects, and respect _them_ in turn. You would’ve been a great king and I will not have you believe otherwise.”

Thorin stared at Bilbo in silent wonder. What had he ever done to deserve such loyalty? He couldn’t deny that the hobbit’s obviously heartfelt words had warmed him, ultimately futile or not.

“Perhaps,” he finally said, though his doubt didn’t translate into the warm smile he gave Bilbo. “But it is of no consequence now. I am here, and Fíli is King of Erebor and that will not change.”

Bilbo’s brows drew together into a frown. “But you have to tell them, Fíli and Kíli at least deserve to know the truth.”

When Thorin’s expression didn’t change, Bilbo stared at him in that sort of helpless despair that Thorin had come to hate of late. “They _mourned_ you. Manwë curse it, they _still_ mourn you!”

Thorin exhaled slowly, only too aware of the truth in that statement. “I know, but you have to promise me not to tell them, Bilbo. Promise me.”

Bilbo stared at him stonily for a long moment before huffing, “Fine, if you want to be that cruel it’s your own business” in a tone of voice that clearly said that the hobbit wasn’t done fighting about this and had no intention whatsoever to let the matter go.

“Why are you here then, Thorin? Why would you risk coming here?”

Thorin grimaced, though relieved that Bilbo had acquiesced to his wish – for now. “I’ve been having some close calls with dwarves lately. All of this would be for naught if someone recognized me on the street and to the best of my knowledge the Shire is still free of dwarven folk.”

“Last time I checked yes,” Bilbo snorted, almost sounding amused. Thorin relaxed a little.

“It’s a small wonder, considering how much food there is to be found here,” he teased lightly and was rewarded with a chuckle.

Seeing the returned bright gleam in Bilbo’s eyes, Thorin couldn’t help but quietly repeat, “And I really am sorry, Bilbo, for what I did. I counted you as my friend for a long time, and I would wish to do so again.”

Bilbo only smiled at him, as if such a simple apology was all that he’d ever wanted from Thorin. “Of course I’m still your friend. Truth be told, I forgave you a long while ago – even for being such an idiot.”

Thorin was helpless to do anything but smile back over the last, cold dredges of his tea.

He remembered Gandalf once stating that hobbits could take one by surprise every time, despite how much one thought one knew about them, and now found that to be truer than ever before – it seemed that Bilbo truly didn’t carry a grudge, far too forgiving and kind hobbit that he was.

Still smiling, Bilbo rose from his seat, finished cup of tea in one hand. When Thorin made a move to do the same, he was waved off. “Stay there, I’ll get you something to eat. You look dreadful.”

“Flattering as always, Bilbo,” Thorin grumped, though only half-heartedly, as he very well knew that he must look a sorry picture after so many months of travel and meagre rations. And he did stay seated, too.

“You’re of course welcome to stay as long as you want,” Bilbo called over his shoulder from where he was rummaging around in the pantry. “As long as you don’t completely eradicate my food stores _without asking first_. And the plumbing better still be working afterwards.”

“Of course,” Thorin agreed into Bilbo’s general direction. “I’ll earn my keep, I promise.”

Bilbo’s head popped around the entry way and he brandished a serving spoon in Thorin’s direction. “No you won’t! What you will do is _rest_ and eat and not worry about everyone and everything for a while.”

When Thorin looked about to protest, Bilbo added with a smirk, “My home, my rules. We need to get you looking like a proper dwarf again at least.”

Thorin thought about continuing his protest, but thought better of it and inclined his head instead. “You have my thanks, Bilbo Baggins.”

“Yes, well, don’t mention it,” Bilbo said, looking a little flustered as his cheeks reddened. “And you don’t need to charm me, Thorin!”

Thorin chuckled and leaned back into his comfortable seat. At last, the future seemed to be looking up a little – especially with the promise of food and a bed involved.

*

Thorin yawned, stretching his arms above his head in a reflexive attempt to loosen his muscles when they didn’t actually need loosening after another night in a comfortable soft bed. Considering that there had been a time he’d doubted he’d ever sleep in such an all-round nice bed again, he supposed that wasn’t too surprising.

Padding down the hall towards the washing chamber, Thorin stopped when he heard faint voices from the sitting room. Though he was quite aware that eavesdropping was something that _wasn’t done_ – and had told Fíli and Kíli so many times – his curiosity won out and he concentrated on his hearing long enough to make out the conversation. He then immediately felt sanctified upon realizing that it was, in fact, about him.

“He seems like a bit of a grim fellow,” one voice, belonging to ‘that hobbit’ – or rather that hobbit that Thorin dimly remembered saying hello to once, and, strangely, having a short but enlightening conversation about different hobbit brews, since every hobbit who wasn’t Bilbo counted as ‘that hobbit’ in Thorin’s books as it stood right now – was saying.

A sigh wafted through the air that could only have come from Bilbo.

“He has enough reason to be, Hamfast,” his friend said quietly and Thorin felt the by now familiar rush of warmth at Bilbo’s continuing shows of support for him – there was also the equally familiar feeling of ‘oh, so _that_ was his name’, but that one was getting so common that he simply ignored it. With the hordes of hobbits living in the Shire he would never remember all the names properly anyway.

“Well,” Hamfast said after a short pause, “polite enough though”, which was said in such a final tone of voice as if that completely laid the matter of Bilbo’s strange dwarf friend to rest.

Not wanting to get caught, Thorin continued on his way, mulling over what he’d just heard. He wasn’t about to fault anyone for thinking him grim because he was, and wouldn’t deny it, but it was surprisingly good to hear that at least this Hamfast fellow wasn’t giving Bilbo any trouble over the issue. The last thing he wanted to do was make Bilbo’s life in the Shire even more complicated – even if the hobbit had assured him several times that his reputation couldn’t get any worse than it already was, what with having gallivanted all over Middle-earth with a group of dwarves, which was apparently an extremely disreputable thing to do.

Nosing through the pantry in search for breakfast, Thorin was quietly surprised to find that they’d run out of both bread and ham, as Bilbo was usually rather overly fastidious when it came to keeping his pantry stocked – and he still hadn’t completely forgiven twelve dwarves who shall not be names here for raiding it so utterly in one evening. Perhaps Thorin’s sudden arrival had thrown Bilbo more than he’d admitted.

Glad that he could finally do something productive and be helpful, Thorin set out for the market, whose location Bilbo had shown him almost on his first day, promising that this was the single most important location Thorin would have to memorize.

On his return, the hobbit hole was silent and, leaving the bags of food next to the pantry door, Thorin went in search of his host.

Passing the doorway to the sitting room Thorin froze in his tracks, his heart starting to beat violently as his eyes drank in the two dwarves standing with their backs to him, one shock of blond hair offsetting the dark red of a travelling cloak Thorin didn’t recognize and one mane of dark brown locks blending with the achingly familiar dark blue of a worn tunic. Dimly he recognized that he should be perturbed to have been found, but the immediate overwhelming joy of seeing the two beings most precious to him once more left no room for worry.

He must’ve made some kind of noise, for Fíli and Kíli turned around as one, and their blinding smiles upon seeing him laid his every anxiety to rest. No one could smile at someone they hated or despised like that.

A second, and twin jubilant shouts of ‘uncle!’ later, Thorin found himself with two armfuls of wonderfully clingy, warm, _alive_ nephews and for a long moment everything was alright with the world.

When Kíli was finally the first to draw back, his eyes looked suspiciously wet.

“You’re in so much trouble, Uncle,” he informed Thorin gravely, though the tight grip one of his hands maintained on Thorin’s arm as if Kíli was afraid he’d disappear any moment belied any personal anger.

He raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“Mum’s awaiting your return back in Erebor,” Fíli replied, sounding almost sympathetic.

Thorin winced. Dís was going to _kill_ him. Twice, if she could get away with it.

“Well, at least they won’t have to bother with creating a new tomb,” he muttered glumly, thoughts of all the different ways Dís would surely hurt him still running through his mind.

He wasn’t too preoccupied, however, to notice both Fíli and Kíli flinch minutely at his words and only then realized that they might be considered rather tasteless in light of their situation.

“Sorry. Too early?” he offered.

Fíli nodded, his face suddenly weary again. “It will never _not_ be too early, Uncle.”

Yet the recriminations Thorin had half expected to follow didn’t come. It threw him off balance, this quiet acceptance of all the suffering he’d unwillingly but knowingly placed on them. Suddenly he had to blink away damning moisture from his own eyes and despite the part of him that was used to assuming a role of authority and trying his best to be an example for his nephews to live by screaming at him to regain control of himself, he couldn’t help but choke out, “I’m sorry, kurdith, I’m so sorry. I never wanted to be so cruel to you.”

This time it was Kíli who reached out, resting his forehead against Thorin’s as he murmured, “We know, adadîn.”

Thorin shut his eyes tightly at hearing their old name for him. _Father-place_. Once it had been the highest compliment, to be called not their father, for he wasn’t that and would never dream of taking that from Víli, but the place where they felt safe, where they belonged. But now, when he’d abandoned them for so long, how could they still name him thusly with such affection and love?

“How can you know that?” he asked quietly without looking at either of them as he bowed his head.

“Because we know _you_ ,” Kíli replied at the same time that Fíli, who was apparently thinking more along the same lines as Thorin, asked, “How do you think we knew to search for you?”

The question threw Thorin enough that he raised startled eyes to look at Fíli, confusion furrowing his brow. “You were searching for me?”

Now it was Fíli’s turn to look unbelieving. “What did you _think_ the dwarves in Edoras and Minas Tirith were doing?”

Thorin stared at him, then at Kíli, and then back at Fíli, searching their faces for any clue as to what was going on, then asked weakly, “But how – ?”

“A few months ago Thranduil visited Erebor unannounced, babbling something about ‘not having thought that stubborn dwarf would actually do it’,” Fíli explained, face grim in memory.

If Thorin had been staring before, then he wasn’t sure what his face was doing now. “Thranduil _told you_?”

Kíli snorted quietly. “We didn’t believe him at first, thinking that it was just another scheme to get one over the dwarves, but he was insistent, and after he’d explained everything…” Kíli’s voice trailed off as he met Thorin’s gaze. “Well, it made a horrible sort of sense that you would do something like that, Uncle.”

Silence descended for a few moments, as Thorin struggled for something, _anything_ , to say and Fíli and Kíli traded glances as if to determine their next step.

“For a while we were angry,” Fíli finally said quietly, once again answering one of Thorin’s unasked questions. “Really angry, to tell you the truth. But after some time, well, how can we rail against something that you did for _us_? How can we fault you for sacrificing so much to see us live?” His lips twisted wryly. “It took a while to get there, and I’m not sure Mum has managed it yet, but we do understand now. It’s probably a good thing it took us a while to catch up to you though.”

Wordlessly, Thorin drew them both into another embrace, this one less hurried and intense, but simply a reassurance that they were truly there, that this wasn’t another wish-fulfilling dream instead of reality.

The other thing he was more than grateful for was that contrary to Bilbo, they didn’t ask why Thorin hadn’t come home earlier. He hoped that was because they, as dwarves, knew the dwarven traditions and set of mind far more intimately than any hearsay would be able to convey, and not because they were afraid of the answer.

At any rate, this meeting was going far better than he’d imagined in any of the many scenarios he’d imagined when lying awake long into the night, mind too busy to sleep.

When they stepped apart, the sword belted to Fíli’s side – which he hadn’t taken off in Bilbo’s home this time, Thorin’s paranoia had to be rubbing off – clinked lightly.

“That reminds me!” Kíli cried, stepping away to bend over one of the packs Thorin only now noticed lying on the ground.

A moment later he was presented with a beautifully familiar sword-sheath. The stirrings of a smile as he reached for his old sword, Orcrist, were immediately extinguished when his gaze fell on Kíli’s wrist, which had been exposed by his dramatic flourish, and the thin reddish scar that ran up into the folds of his sleeve. Thorin knew it was probably only one of many such marks littering both his nephews’ bodies after such a close brush with death, but seeing the proof of how close he’d come to losing them was made no less painful by this cold rationality.

He’d been staring for too long, unmoving, for Kíli made a small noise at the back of his throat and withdrew his hand farther back into his sleeve, just as Thorin finally took Orcrist from his hands.

When he looked up, however, Kíli didn’t look distressed or ashamed, but apologetic of all things – as if the fact that he’d inadvertently reminded Thorin of the past was worse than the scar itself.

Absent-mindedly running his hands over the smooth, well-worn handle, so familiar a shape under his careful finger-tips, Thorin decided to leave the matter of scars aside for now and asked instead, “How did you come by this?”

Fíli’s lips twisted in a mix of amusement and distaste. “It turned out that the elf felt at least somewhat guilty for what he wrought, deservedly so. He brought it back from his halls together with – ”

Fíli stopped abruptly, his cheeks colouring a little as Kíli turned to look at him so swiftly his movement was but a blur and hissed, “Fíli!”

Thorin looked between them. “What?”

The recalcitrant faces that turned back to him prompted an instant trip down memory lane to the many occasions two little dwarflings had found themselves in trouble.

Fíli coughed once and said with obvious hesitance, his words coming faster and faster once he’d started, “We sort of gave the arkenstone to Thranduil as thanks for saving our lives after the battle.”

For a moment Thorin simply stared because the irony was just _too_ much to process – then he started laughing.

And maybe he hadn’t been coping with all of this as well as he’d thought, for once he’d started laughing he found that he simply _couldn’t_ stop, nor could he stem the flow of tears and flood of sobs that replaced the hysterical mirth until he found himself lying prone on Bilbo’s polished hard-wood floor with a worried Fíli and Kíli trying to comfort him on either side.

*

The first thing Dwalin did when he set eyes on Thorin in Bag End for the second time in their lives was to punch him. Hard. On the nose.

Admittedly, this didn’t come as a complete surprise, so Thorin had time enough to brace himself, but it was still _Dwalin_ hitting him, which, by default, meant pain.

“That was for being a self-sacrificing, stubborn ass!” the other growled.

Thorin gingerly dabbed at his stinging nose with the back of his hand and was relieved to see only a little bit of blood. It wouldn’t do to drip all over Bilbo’s lovely home – and then probably be forced to clean it up later.

“I’m glad to see you too, Dwalin,” Thorin said, just a tad sourly, despite knowing that, really, he had deserved the hit.

Dwalin’s glare could’ve skinned a troll. “Never, _never_ do that to us again, Thorin.”

“I doubt I’ll ever be in that particular position again,” Thorin informed him dryly because there were some things he wouldn’t promise, however unlikely to happen – he would always do everything in his power to keep his family safe, and even now, after the all the pain and hardship, he’d agree to the same deal with Thranduil once more if he had to do it all over again.

Dwalin grunted in a way that made quite clear the evasion hadn’t gone past him, but since he drew Thorin into a rather violent hug only a moment later, Thorin figured he wasn’t too mad about it.

Ignoring the way Dwalin’s numerous pieces of armour dug uncomfortably into his arms and sides, Thorin thumped the warrior on the back in what passed as a consoling manner in their shared world, though judging by the feeling he was mostly patting Grasper and Keeper instead of Dwalin himself.

It didn’t matter anyway. He and Dwalin had known each other long enough to understand each other, without words, and sometimes even without actions.

“Nori ‘n the others are waiting for you lot,” Dwalin said in the direction of Fíli and Kíli once they’d drawn apart. “Erebor ain’t goin’ to run itself for forever.”

Kíli only snorted and rolled his eyes. “You know as well as I do that Dís and Balin together are scarily efficient and probably more capable than Fíli and I anyway.”

Dwalin grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘truer words were never spoken’, but his eyes were busy darting between Thorin, who only now noticed that he’d unwittingly stiffened at the mention of going back to Erebor and was currently making a concerted effort to relax his posture again, and his nephews.

Never let it be said that Dwalin wasn’t only far smarter than he looked, but also quite perceptive, for after a few seconds of scrutiny, he shrugged grandly and announced, “Well, I might as well go ‘n tell Nori that we finally found ‘im.”

And without another word, or any kind of acknowledgment of the grateful look Fíli cast him, he turned and made for the entrance.

“And make sure he doesn’t run away, boys!” he called just before the door fell shut.

Silence descended for the while, until Thorin, finally fed up with the wary looks Fíli and Kíli kept sending his way as if he was some skittish animal, said – with more patience than he felt this silliness deserved – “I’m not going to run away, lads.”

“Are you not?” Fíli challenged, a tight set to his mouth. “Don’t think we didn’t notice your alarm when Dwalin mentioned Erebor. You used to flinch every time someone mentioned your home, and then on the quest you brightened up whenever the name fell in conversation. But now?” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t even know what you’re thinking, Uncle.”

Thorin set Orcrist down carefully at his feet, partly because he was starting to feel ridiculous with it in his hands in Bilbo’s peaceful home and partly to buy himself time to pull himself together.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he started slowly, gaze resting on both his nephews, “that my return to Erebor is a good idea.”

“Why ever _not_?” Kíli spluttered, while Fíli simply looked pained.

Thorin allowed himself a small, proud smile. “You’re both doing well by your kingdom, Fíli, Kíli, and Erebor is thriving.”

“All the more reason for you to come back!” Kíli cried. “It’s only because of you that Durin’s folk has  a home once more and you should be there to reap the reward of what you’ve wrought!”

“Is it though? Tis true that it was on my behest that the quest to reclaim the mountain was conceived and undertaken, but it’s current prosperity has nothing to do with me. Ever since we set out on this quest I’ve only ever made the wrong choices, never more so than at the end.”

Even now a shudder still went through him at thinking about the gold sickness, so vividly did he recall the feeling of a mind not his own.

“The throne of Erebor is yours, Thorin, and it was always meant to be,” Fíli interjected quietly, and something about his tone alerted Thorin that he knew which direction his uncle’s thoughts had taken, for there was a quiet heaviness in his voice – but no condemnation.

Thorin focused on him now, as Kíli seemed disinclined still to think ill of him in any way. “You do not know the devastation a king’s warped mind can bring, and you do not know the power of madness. I swore to myself I would not fall prey to it and yet I did and wrought more damage in a few hours than I could unmake in a life-time.”

Kíli was now looking between Fíli and Thorin, a confused frown marring his forehead, as if he knew that he was missing an undercurrent of the conversation without which it simply didn’t make sense. “But the madness is gone!” he pointed out helplessly, not understanding why they hadn’t taken note of this simple but rather important fact. “…isn’t it?”

“There’s an easy answer to that, Kíli,” Fíli said, then turned to Thorin, his gaze full of conviction. “If Thranduil had offered you to tend to us in exchange for the arkenstone, would you have given it to him?”

The answer came without thought or hesitance. “I would.” He smiled a little lopsidedly. “I’ve found, not much to my surprise, that for you, kurdith, I would do anything.”

He sighed once, despite the glowing faces of happiness in front of him. “I did not mean to imply that the madness still has a hold of me now. But I _cannot_ know that it will never return. There’s been little to tempt me on my travels, but in Erebor so much wealth is still amassed…”

Thorin trailed off, his face tightening. There would never be any guarantee that the madness had left him for good, especially when in Erebor. If he were to return, there would have to be precautions taken, and none of them particularly pleasant. One, however, he was afraid of the most.

“If you wish me to return,” Thorin said solemnly, reaching out with his hands to anchor himself on his nephews arms for what he was about to ask of them, “there is one thing you must promise me. One thing I wish I would never have had to burden you with, but history has proven its necessity.”

Feeling their anticipating gazes of him like a physical weight, he continued, his heart heavy, “Should I ever display signs of the madness again, you will have to… remove me. I could ask no other to do this, for I trust no other as I trust you, though you may inform Balin and Dwalin if the time ever comes.”

When he had spoken, Kíli looked horrified and Fíli, well, Fíli looked like someone who had seen this coming and still would’ve done everything to avoid it. Yet, they were also both of Durin’s line and blessed with its strength – and with their desire to see Thorin return with them.

“I promise,” Fíli said first, crossing his fist over his heart, and was followed by Kíli murmuring the same words, though with more reluctance. Thus was the burden of having been the first in the line to the throne, and far more conscious of duty and necessity than the more carefree second prince. Not that Fíli had ever truly begrudged Kíli that, as far as Thorin could tell, for the youngest’s happiness in life had been a source of joy for the whole family many a time.

Thorin smiled at them both, his pride in the dwarves his sister-sons had become shining in his eyes, and dipped his head in a clear sign of deference.

“Then I shall come.”

*

Blackmane was obviously happy to see him, whinnying as soon as Thorin stepped in sight of his stall at the Green Dragon. Thorin was satisfied to note that his pony had been well cared for, and he went about readying Blackmane without paying much attention to his nephews who were cooing over the horse behind him, undoubtedly wearing sickeningly adorable faces – all three of them.

He didn’t pay that much attention that was, until he heard a loud snorting noise, followed by an even louder ‘ewww’ and a burst of laughter. Thorin turned around, a habitual reprimand already on his lips, only to find such a comical sight in front of his eyes that his mouth remained closed. Somehow Blackmane had managed to cover the whole of Kíli’s face with snot – and was now looking fairly pleased with himself, as much as a pony could anyway – who was now wiping at his face with his sleeve ineffectually a patented massive Kíli pout appearing. Fíli, on the other hand, was laughing so hard he had to cling to a stall post to keep himself upright.

It was impossible to keep a straight face when confronted by such a sight, especially since it could’ve been lifted straight from Fíli and Kíli’s teenage years in Ered Luin – a warm reminder that times hadn’t always only been bad.

Ten minutes later found Thorin being frowned at heavily by Dwalin who was already astride his pony next to Nori and with a small troop of heavily armed guards at his back.

“Where’s Kíli?” Dwalin asked him and Fíli suspiciously. “We were supposed ta get goin’ hours ago.”

While Fíli muffled another snicker behind his hand, Thorin replied nonchalantly, “He’s just getting cleaned up. He had a little… mishap.”

Dwalin’s frown turned into a full-blown glare, clearly not buying it – which might have something to do with the fact that Fíli’s face was slowly turning red with the effort of not bursting out laughing again. Fortunately a harried looking Kíli, his face still dripping droplets of water, chose that moment to hurry around the corner with his own pony, preventing any possible lecture. Though the youngest Heir of Durin nearly started another tussle when he shook his head like a wet puppy, spraying Fíli full in the face in what could only be an act of revenge for his brother’s mirth at his expense. Another glare from Dwalin was the only thing it took to get Fíli on his pony and away from his brother without protest.

Still grumbling irritably, Dwalin kicked his pony into an almost trot in a clear sign that they’d better get moving _right this instant_ or else. Thorin wasn’t quite sure why his friend was so insistent on getting back to Erebor as soon as possible, though if he had to hazard a guess, he would put his money on it having something to do with the smirk Nori had been sporting ever since Thorin had first set eyes on him again.

Mounting Blackmane, Thorin looked back in the direction of Bag End one last time. It might not have been the last time he visited Bilbo, but it nevertheless felt like goodbye. Whenever he’d wished over the course of the last few hours that he’d known that the dwarves he’d nearly encountered had been searching for him and had been reunited with his family sooner, he recalled the time that he’d spent with his friend here, in the peaceful Shire, and couldn’t really bring himself to regret it. The healing his visit had brought had been sorely needed by both of them.

“Heya, your Highness, will ya stop tarrying!” Dwalin called impatiently from the front of the little colony of dwarves, so reminiscent of the thirteen that had set out from here what now seemed so long ago.

With a gentle tug at the reins he turned Blackmane back onto the path to follow Dwalin. But not before he’d thrown his friend two of Bilbo’s best – and most coveted – cookies in an effort to appease him.

(It should be mentioned that he’d come by them at a great personal risk; sneaking around a Hobbit hole was harder than it seemed as well as more perilous if caught than anyone would’ve expected.)

The treats disappeared somewhere between Dwalin’s beard and nose in record time.

A short pause followed.

“I forgive ya,” Dwalin said gruffly, brushing stray crumbs out of his beard. “Now let’s get movin’.”

Kíli started laughing first, but Fíli and Thorin soon joined in – even Dwalin ended up cracking a grudging smile; Nori only continued smirking. And finally the lingering darkness in Thorin’s mind receded completely.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've marked this as part of a series, since I can definitely imagine writing more in this verse, for example the other side of the story, i.e. what happened at Erebor while Thorin was off gallivanting through Middle-earth, and the reunion with Dis (which was originally supposed to be part of this story, but it just wasn't to be).  
> So if anyone is actually reading this story, I'll definitely do that. If no one's reading this story I still might, just because, but it definitely wouldn't be as much fun.
> 
> Please do leave comments or kudos - they make my day so much brighter. Imagine Dwalin and cookies, it's just like that.


End file.
